Chichin, chichin the tiny bell resounded lightly over the tense Oaxacan air last night. A vendor pushes his cart along the strip of barricades hoping to sell some of his wares to the protesters keeping vigil in this struggle to oust the corrupt Ulises Ruiz, the governor accused of stealing the elections.
Looking up in to the night sky, I saw the crescent moon shining through the patchy clouds. A soft wind streamed over my face, biting me with icy coldness. Tomorrow, I heard would be a warm day, but tonight I was cold. I made my way to a nearby burnt out bus, threw my knapsack on the ground, sat on it and leaned back against the bus. I huddle my knees into my chest and pulled my jacket in tightly – it would be a long night.
Word that Fox is sending troops into the Zapotecan capitol came earlier today, after the shooting of the American. We fear that the troops will side with Ruiz; Fox has vowed to end this strike before he hands over power to Calderon. A meeting is going on right now; our leaders are working on a plan.
I reach into my pocket and pull out a photo of my wife and children, they are smiling. I remember the day we took the picture. It was a Sunday, after going to church we took a stroll through the jardin across the street from the church. It was a warm and festive day. How I wish it were that day today.
Chichin, chichin . . . the vendor pushing his cart comes closer and some of the people near me go over to him. “Que vede?” I shout. “Churros!” comes the answer. I put the photo back into my pocket.
Carlos walks over to me and hands me a churro. It’s freshly made and warm; its sweet aroma brings a smile to my face. I look into Carlos’ face and though he too is smiling like me, his eyes reveal the tension we both share. We know a confrontation is coming and that more will die in this struggle to rid our country of corruption – a corruption that has become our country’s political trademark.
Some years ago in DF, students protesting the government were indiscriminately killed in a mass raid by government troops and we fear the same action will be taken against us. We are no match for the troops. Most of us are not armed and those that are, have slingshots, machetes and bottles as weapons.
Some coffee would be very welcome right now. Why did they have to kill that American? I am ashamed of this government. That poor man’s loved ones will now hate us and hate all Mexicans because of the coward Ulises Ruiz. If I could only get a message to the fallen American’s family, I would tell them that every one of us is praying for them and that his death to us is as personal as the death of one of our own brothers.
Doña Adela comes with news from the meeting. She’s a teacher from Huajaupan, a nearby town. We gather round her. She seems excited and gasping to catch her breath. “The police are waiting for troops to come and assisted them in breaking up the strike,” she manages to screech out. Some one shouts, “Chingen su madres!” Doña Adela continues, “Pues, the junta has ordered that we disband, go home and return to work on Monday.”
Carlos throws his hands up and shouts, “No manches!” We should fight! Stand our ground! I’ve been here six months and I’m not giving up so easily!
Doña Adela reaches her arms out to Carlos and places her hands on his shoulders and looks straight into his eyes, “Carlos,” she whispers softly, “we did not come here to die, but to live. If one more of us die, could you live with their death on your soul?” Carlos’ eyes swell with tears and his lips quiver. Doña Adela envelops Carlos in a comforting embrace. Carlos cries, tears fill our eyes and we know that this madness must come to an end.
Day breaks and we hear the distant roar of trucks, the chopping drone from helicopters that fly overhead. We can now see the approaching tanks. Behind the tanks there are hundreds of troops and police clad in riot gear. A few of us decided to stay and greet the nemesis. Down the row of barricades flags and banners still wave in protest of the corruption, but also there are white flags of truce. Many of my comrades wave their arms in the air to show that they are unarmed as the troops and police reach the barricades.
Carlos stands like a fearless warrior in front of the barrage of troops and police who hide behind a wall of transparent shields and pleads to them, “Put down your shields, we are brothers!” The troops and police continue their relentless approach and several of my comrades are leaving the barricade, running in some instances.
Carlos shouts, “This is the fault of just one man, Ulises Ruiz. He is your enemy, not us!”
I grab him by the arm and pull him away from the oncoming barrage that will crush him under foot. It is evident that they will use force if we resist. We run down the streets to safety. We will wait for an answer to our demands. We will return if they are not met.
Today is not a good day to die, but to live to fight again.
Looking up in to the night sky, I saw the crescent moon shining through the patchy clouds. A soft wind streamed over my face, biting me with icy coldness. Tomorrow, I heard would be a warm day, but tonight I was cold. I made my way to a nearby burnt out bus, threw my knapsack on the ground, sat on it and leaned back against the bus. I huddle my knees into my chest and pulled my jacket in tightly – it would be a long night.
Word that Fox is sending troops into the Zapotecan capitol came earlier today, after the shooting of the American. We fear that the troops will side with Ruiz; Fox has vowed to end this strike before he hands over power to Calderon. A meeting is going on right now; our leaders are working on a plan.
I reach into my pocket and pull out a photo of my wife and children, they are smiling. I remember the day we took the picture. It was a Sunday, after going to church we took a stroll through the jardin across the street from the church. It was a warm and festive day. How I wish it were that day today.
Chichin, chichin . . . the vendor pushing his cart comes closer and some of the people near me go over to him. “Que vede?” I shout. “Churros!” comes the answer. I put the photo back into my pocket.
Carlos walks over to me and hands me a churro. It’s freshly made and warm; its sweet aroma brings a smile to my face. I look into Carlos’ face and though he too is smiling like me, his eyes reveal the tension we both share. We know a confrontation is coming and that more will die in this struggle to rid our country of corruption – a corruption that has become our country’s political trademark.
Some years ago in DF, students protesting the government were indiscriminately killed in a mass raid by government troops and we fear the same action will be taken against us. We are no match for the troops. Most of us are not armed and those that are, have slingshots, machetes and bottles as weapons.
Some coffee would be very welcome right now. Why did they have to kill that American? I am ashamed of this government. That poor man’s loved ones will now hate us and hate all Mexicans because of the coward Ulises Ruiz. If I could only get a message to the fallen American’s family, I would tell them that every one of us is praying for them and that his death to us is as personal as the death of one of our own brothers.
Doña Adela comes with news from the meeting. She’s a teacher from Huajaupan, a nearby town. We gather round her. She seems excited and gasping to catch her breath. “The police are waiting for troops to come and assisted them in breaking up the strike,” she manages to screech out. Some one shouts, “Chingen su madres!” Doña Adela continues, “Pues, the junta has ordered that we disband, go home and return to work on Monday.”
Carlos throws his hands up and shouts, “No manches!” We should fight! Stand our ground! I’ve been here six months and I’m not giving up so easily!
Doña Adela reaches her arms out to Carlos and places her hands on his shoulders and looks straight into his eyes, “Carlos,” she whispers softly, “we did not come here to die, but to live. If one more of us die, could you live with their death on your soul?” Carlos’ eyes swell with tears and his lips quiver. Doña Adela envelops Carlos in a comforting embrace. Carlos cries, tears fill our eyes and we know that this madness must come to an end.
Day breaks and we hear the distant roar of trucks, the chopping drone from helicopters that fly overhead. We can now see the approaching tanks. Behind the tanks there are hundreds of troops and police clad in riot gear. A few of us decided to stay and greet the nemesis. Down the row of barricades flags and banners still wave in protest of the corruption, but also there are white flags of truce. Many of my comrades wave their arms in the air to show that they are unarmed as the troops and police reach the barricades.
Carlos stands like a fearless warrior in front of the barrage of troops and police who hide behind a wall of transparent shields and pleads to them, “Put down your shields, we are brothers!” The troops and police continue their relentless approach and several of my comrades are leaving the barricade, running in some instances.
Carlos shouts, “This is the fault of just one man, Ulises Ruiz. He is your enemy, not us!”
I grab him by the arm and pull him away from the oncoming barrage that will crush him under foot. It is evident that they will use force if we resist. We run down the streets to safety. We will wait for an answer to our demands. We will return if they are not met.
Today is not a good day to die, but to live to fight again.
Add your comments